Harrelson grunted. Scarlett could have sworn the words “Yeah, right,” were said, but he’d been too quiet for her to be sure. He spoke again, louder this time. “Have your medical clearance on my desk by the end of the week, or I’m pulling you.” His fingers moved back to the tie as he went to stand. “Do we have an understanding, Christensen?”
Scarlett’s fingers unfurled from the chair arm, and her shoulders dropped with relief. She was still on the case. She’d work the rest out later. “Yes, sir.”
He moved to his office door, then turned back, looking at her. “Don’t make me regret this decision, Scarlett. Don’t do anything stupid.” His gaze fell, and a grimace crossed his face. “I don’t need another detective’s death on my conscience.”
The captain was gone before his words impacted. Derek. She’d thrown plenty of blame on herself in the days and weeks following his murder, but she hadn’t realized her boss felt exactly the same way. Her heart ached. Coming back to work after Derek’s death had seemed like the easy way out at first—throw herself into the job so she didn’t have to think about him anymore, so she didn’t have to feel anything.
As it turned out, it had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. It wasn’t until just this month, until she’d met Connor, that the touch of anyone had sparked things inside her she thought long lost. Even then, she’d walled him off, kept him away from her in a misguided attempt to protect herself. Thank God he hadn’t given up until the walls she’d surrounded herself with had been fully broken down. Connor made her body, and her heart, sing. It was something she had thought was lost forever.
Was the captain still stuck in his grief, too?
She stood and pushed open the door, following him out of his office and back to the bullpen. Maybe if she solved this case, showed him that she was okay and she was moving on with her life, maybe that would help Harrelson, too. But to do that, she had to prove something that scared the hell out of her. That there were terrorists in Monroe.
16
Connor
Connor glanced back at the closed door to Captain Harrelson’s office. Scarlett had been inside for just ten short minutes, but what he’d read in her absence had nearly been enough to stop his heart. It had taken him a few minutes after she’d left to figure out no one was looking at him closely. Either that, or everyone had been informed that the cops and firefighters were working together on this one and so paid him no heed. He’d turned around in the chair and jiggled the mouse, bringing the system back to life. He’d expected a login screen, but instead it had taken him right back to where Scarlett had left off.
TATP.
He’d never heard the acronym before today, but it was enough to freeze the blood in his veins. Multiple windows were open across the screen. Manchester, London, Paris. Traces found of the explosive in Spain. It hadn’t been used stateside—yet—but there had been foiled attempts, and an extremely similar compound had been used in a terrorist attack in New York the year before. Was this what had caused the damage at the fires?
At the time, he hadn’t thought they were anything more than fires, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Connor dropped back in his chair, huffing out a breath. He didn’t want it to make sense. Didn’t want to think for a second that there could be a terrorist cell in Monroe. The idea was so fucking ridiculous it almost made him laugh.
His smile dropped away. That was likely entirely the point. The idea had been tossed around for years, but many hadn’t taken it seriously. At first. Now some news outlets were reporting setups of radical Muslim groups setting up in rural towns. True, they weren’t the most reliable sources, either, but once the idea had wormed its way into his head, it was hard to shake. There were ones in Britain; why not here?
He kept reading, ignoring videos of idiots experimenting with the chemical concoction and reports of tens of people dying in attacks with the damn stuff, many more injured. Some of the attacks had been botched, or had gone off prematurely. He shook his head, scrolling. The stuff was incredibly volatile, easily enough to cause the damage they’d found at the recent fires. The last in particular had burned hotter, more intensely than he’d expect. At the time, he’d put it down to accelerants, some kind of chemical being squirreled away in the home that they hadn’t found yet. But what if it was more than that?
A hand on his shoulder made him flinch. “Whoa there, big boy,” Scarlett said. Her hand curved around his shoulder, squeezing gently before she dropped it away.
He noticed she’d kept the PDA on the down-low since they’d left his apartment that morning. Since they’d come together the night before in a tangled mess of adrenaline and lust, they’d barely been able to keep their hands off each other. Even when they were eating breakfast or driving in afterward, she’d found ways to touch him. A hand on his knee as she reached over to do up her seatbelt, fingers brushing over his neck for a little longer than it took to straighten his collar. He understood. Connor had taken every opportunity to be in physical contact with Scarlett that he could.
Something had changed as they’d walked up to the building the station was housed in. She’d been tense at first, the peace she’d managed to find the night before obliterated as she’d stepped out into the parking lot. Even in the bright light of day, her shoulders had tensed and her hands curled up, one going to where her duty weapon sat in her holster. Connor wasn’t sure she’d realized it, the movement automatic even as her feet had stopped moving and she’d frozen in the middle of the lot, just yards from his truck.
He’d almost gone to her then, wrapping her up in his arms. He’d hold her for eternity if that’s what it took for her to feel safe again.
But then something had changed in her eyes. He’d watched the transformation, and it he couldn’t have been prouder. It had happened over mere seconds, but to him, each subtle change meant the world. The grip of her hands had relaxed, followed by her arms, and then the rest of her body. Throughout the whole moment, she’d kept her face neutral. She didn’t have to hide her fear from him, and ideally, after last night, Scarlett knew he’d be there for her no matter what, but he could understand why she would fight against letting her guard down in front of her fellow officers. Her eyes though . . . it was as obvious as the sun shining down on them. The fear transformed into determination just seconds before she took a step and then another, the tenseness of her muscles changing into strength as she strode into the building.
He reached up and clasped her hand briefly, squeezing before letting go. Damn, his woman was a warrior. Whatever the hell was going on in Monroe, even if her suspicions proved to be true, then she’d be ready. And he’d be right beside her. If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that Scarlett would never again have to face alone the monsters that hid in the dark.
Connor turned, moving to face her and brushing his hand against hers. Their hands were under the edge of the desk, and so no one else would notice, but with her return came the almost-constant need to touch her again. She’d been gone for ten minutes, fifteen tops, but having her out of his line of sight was making him feel hinky after the night before.
He pulled up a smile, but it dropped away quickly when she didn’t return it. Her brow was furrowed as she read over his shoulder—a newspaper article about the guy who had narrowly escaped blowing up his family with a home-cooked batch of their suspected explosive. She pulled up her chair and scooted closer to the keyboard, her fingers flying as she pulled up a database he didn’t recognize.
The searches she ran didn’t make any sense at first, but from her intense scowl at the screen, she had to be chasing something. Police reports, both local and surrounding counties flew past on the screen; thefts from hardware stores, protests at large companies, even personal altercations. What was she trying to find?
Before he could ask, Scarlett hit “print screen” on a bunch of windows and then nearly sprinted over to the communal printer. He watched as she stood there, a hand shoved up to her mouth as she c
hewed at her nails, her foot tapping furiously on the floor. Connor’s puzzlement at her actions turned into concern. She was clearly rattled. He only hoped no one else was paying as much attention to her as he was in that moment.
The printer light started blinking, then seconds later, it lurched into action, spinning the paper feeder. As printouts appeared at the top, Scarlett snatched up each one and held it to her chest. Once she had the handful, she walked swiftly back to her computer, closed down every window, and powered it off. She shoved the papers in a folder and jammed that into a bag she pulled out from her lower desk drawer. She stood and without saying a word, turned and walked out of the precinct. He followed, waiting until they were outside to talk. “What’s going on?”
Her eyes darted around the parking lot. “Not here,” she hissed beneath her breath. It wasn’t until he’d spun the truck of the lot and made it onto the highway that she released her death grip on the bag she’d been holding on her lap.
Connor looked over at her, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. The first thing he’d figured out when meeting Scarlett was that she would not be pushed into anything. Perhaps it came from working in a male-dominated field, but there was no point trying to push her into doing anything. She’d talk when she was good and ready. Still, he couldn’t stop his concerned glance in her direction as he downshifted the gears as they pulled up to a red light. Whatever she’d found back at the office had spooked her, and he didn’t like not knowing what it was.
Connor looked back at the road. He had been an ass. This was exactly what Scarlett had been afraid of, only in reverse. He’d known going in what she did for a living, and that she was fucking amazing at it. He could no more ask her not to follow a lead than he could give up charging into burning buildings. This wasn’t just a job, to either of them, and he had to respect that, even if he couldn’t get the image of someone pointing a gun at her out of his mind. His hand thumped at the wheel as he turned a corner. He’d known Scarlett casually through work for several years, heard the stories about what happened to her husband, but he’d only known the real her for a little more than a week. Already, though, he was captivated by her—every part of her. It was just the way it was, and if she could learn to trust again and give whatever was between them a shot, then he sure as hell could to. She was absolutely worth it.
Without a destination being mentioned, he turned the truck back to his place. The rest of her research was still there anyway, and he definitely didn’t mind putting one more hop between Scarlett and whoever was painting a target on her back. He pulled into the drive and was surprised when Scarlett made no move to exit the truck. He popped open his door and was around the other side, opening hers, before she’d moved. He placed a hand on her thigh and gently squeezed, but Scarlett still flinched at his touch. Connor cursed beneath his breath, but rather than remove his hand, skated it up along her body until it was resting beneath her chin. Turning her face toward him, he spoke again. “What’s the problem?”
“I didn’t want to believe it,” she blurted out.
Connor smiled, trying to lighten the situation. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
Rather than answer immediately, Scarlett scooped up the backpack and made her way to his front door. He’d barely closed the door behind him before she had the contents of the bag spread out on his kitchen table. “There! I didn’t see it at first. Not until I skimmed the article you’d been reading.”
Connor’s eyebrows furrowed. “The one about the idiot cooking TATP at home?”
Scarlett nodded then ran a hand through her hair. “The whole situation just seemed so far-fetched at first that I didn’t stop to think how it all started.” She leaned forward, jabbing a finger at one of her printouts. “If someone really is cooking explosives in Monroe, then they’re going to need supplies. At first I wondered if searching for that would be pointless. After all, they’re going to spread the purchases out, right? Make a few not so close to home.” She shook her head, picking up another printout. “Either these guys are complete idiots, or we are.” She handed him the paper. “No one even looked. These guys have been stockpiling chemicals for months, maybe longer.”
He took the paper she held out, scanning it. “But someone did, right? This is a police report?” He looked up at Scarlett, who was frowning deeply at him. What was he missing?
She pointed to the name at the bottom of the report. “Check it out. An officer responded to a call made by a hardware store a town over. The owner was concerned because the same guy came back multiple times buying enough drain cleaner to cleanse the entire county. The guy didn’t know what he wanted with it”—Scarlett shrugged—“but it’s a whole new world out there, right? He felt he had a duty to report it.” She made quotation marks with her fingers around the words.
Connor nodded. “Did it go any further?” He was still studying the paper in his hand, looking for a clue as to what had her so worked up when another sheet landed on top.
“The cop in question didn’t do any more than take down the report and file it,” she said. “He didn’t follow up with the purchaser, and as far as I can tell, did no further investigation into other similar purchases, either.”
He flicked through the papers, brow furrowed. “Maybe he’s just lazy?”
Another piece of paper landed on top of the two in his hand. It was yet another report, this time of an attendance at a protest about illegal dumping of chemical at a warehouse. “Or maybe he’s a corrupt bastard.”
Connor scanned the paper until he found the same name again. The same cop had attended the rally. Surely that was just a coincidence? Monroe wasn’t that big. It wouldn’t be at all unusual for someone to attend two calls on similar subject matter. He didn’t realize he’d muttered the idea out loud until Scarlett replied.
“I thought so, too. Until I went digging.” She rummaged around in her bag, her hand emerging holding a highlighter. She worked through the papers spread out on the table, a bright pink slash appearing on every single document. With every mark of the pen, Connor’s nerves tingled just a little more, until it built to a rock sitting in his stomach. Had Scarlett found what he’d been wondering was hiding? Just an hour ago, he’d been talking himself down, telling himself he was being alarmist. Conspiracy theories were rife in the current political climate, but he’d prided himself on not getting caught up in all that.
“It was the protest that grabbed my attention,” Scarlett said. She pointed at a small notation in the report, something he’d missed in his first read. “He wasn’t called there. He was already there, and not as one of the protestors. There’s no mention as to why he was already on scene in the report, so I started looking.” She gestured across the table. “At least fifteen incidents, spread across months and across the county, some even outside our jurisdiction. Different calls, different perps, but every single one somehow linked to TATP. Warehouse break-ins, protests, chemical sales, reports of prowlers even. And yet nothing’s ever done except take the report and lodge it. No investigation, no arrests. Nothing.” She looked up at him. “I can’t prove it, yet. But there’s got to be a reason why three houses have exploded in Monroe in the last week, and I’m betting this is it.”
“So what do we do? Go talk to the captain, the fire chief? I can call Liam . . .” Connor had his phone out and was tapping to dial the arson investigator’s number when Scarlett reached out and stilled his hand.
“We do nothing.” She ground her jaw in frustration, one hand still clenched around the highlighter. It looked strange. Something like this should be red, he thought, something more official and alarmist than the brash pink shade decorating the documents. “There’s a reason I hit print screen rather than run a real print request,” Scarlett said. “It’s bad enough that I’ll have left a fingerprint behind of my searches. I wasn’t about to do any more damage.” She flopped down in a chair, running a hand over her face. “For now, we wait, and read. There’s gotta be something, somewhere, that�
�ll prove we’re right. Even a small batch of this stuff can be lethal. The house fires can’t be the first time they’ve experimented.” She pulled the papers toward her. “I just have to find it.”
Connor grabbed a batch and placed them in front of him and then walked into the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker. It was going to be a very, very long night.
17
Connor
Connor jerked awake. The pile of papers he was resting on fluttered to the floor, and a pen he’d been using to underline anything that caught his eye clattered lightly as it hit the floor. He looked over at where he’d last seen Scarlett. He didn’t know who had fallen asleep first, but somewhere along the line, they’d both succumbed. She was slumped in an armchair, her head falling back, a stapled bunch of papers still sitting in her lap and a computer balanced precariously on a side table next to her.
He stood, muscles cramping, and reached his arms up to the ceiling, stretching so hard that his vision blacked out for a few seconds. He grabbed at the edge of the table for support. God, how long had they been asleep?
They’d arrived home just before lunch and had spent the rest of the afternoon chasing after Scarlett’s lead. When daylight had started leaching from the sky, he’d paused long enough to order a large pizza, the remains of which sat in a greasy mess still in the box on the floor near the couch. After that, things became more of a blur.
A beer bottle sat in front of where he’d been napping, but one wasn’t enough to send him to sleep. Connor pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned on the screen. Two a.m. Okay, that would explain it. With the near-constant calls and . . . ahem, other things . . . he and Scarlett had both had seriously little sleep in the last week. It seemed that with pizza and a beer in his belly, sitting and reading police reports had finally been enough to make him succumb to sleep.
Under Fire (Southern Heat Book 7) Page 11
